Last Wednesday, I received my official offer letter from The Law Firm. As of August 30th, I’ll be a permanent employee, and with the temp status eradicated, I will no longer make myself feel like the red-headed step child! I was sitting at the playground with Chooch when the email from the HR department came to my phone. Sitting there at the picnic table, surrounded by wavering odor-rays of boiling piss (playgrounds are disgusting with that spongy shit they put down over the asphalt), I read the offer letter and promptly cried. I don’t often cry out of happiness. That’s not really my style. So you know that what I read in this letter was a pretty big deal for some uneducated asshole like myself.
I look back to last April, when an employment agency completely cold-called me while I was already placed at another assignment by another temp agency, and I can’t help but feel like the whole situation was handed to me on silver platter; that all the shit I had to go through over the last few years with unemployment, false-positive drug test results (I still stew over that, but if that hadn’t been the case, I might be working for pennies right now at FedEx), and jobs that had me working with the likes of Eleanore and Tina was worth it. No, I don’t like every single person with whom I work. Does anyone, really? But the great thing about my job is that I only work five hours a night and with four different people every night. Plus G (as in, Granny Cleavage). And most of that time, I’m by myself.
Which is what I prefer.
And there’s cake, and not the shitty kind that’s born in supermarket “bakeries,” either. And Kaitlin’s macarons, among other disgustingly perfect baked goods she whips up like it ain’t no thing.
And there’s Barb, who reads my blog and doesn’t think I’m a psycho and who makes the first 90 minutes of my shift entertaining. And there’s hockey fans, HUGE hockey fans.
And I finally work in a place where wearing Beer Tees, Crocs, and flip flops isn’t acceptable. Where people speak properly and use smart words and I love smart words.
When I went into work Friday afternoon, people were huddled around the table by the kitchen. And I mean, literally huddled, all hunched over, examining whatever was on the table which I couldn’t see. Someone, I think it was Barb but it was all a blur, noticed me walking by and said, “Oh Erin! There’s cake here. And it’s for you!”
I thought she was kidding. But apparently my boss had sent out an email to the department earlier, informing everyone of the news of my employment. There were about thirty replies in my inbox, all “Re: Erin Kelly” yet 90% of them were about cake.
“So…does that mean we get to have cake?”
“Seriously, will there be cake? Because if not, I’ll have to find something else to eat.”
I replied all, something about “I’m always happy to provide a reason for cake,” which started a new string of emails asking, “So, does that mean we can have cake every time Erin comes in?” which somehow ended in me being reborn as Night Cake.
There were a few actual emails congratulating me, if you had the patience to sift through all the cake-centric replies.
Solipsism runs rampant there, so really, I kind of fit right in.
However, the downside to that is that I had to cut my own cake.